


Love is Greed ('Cause There's Beauty in Being Alone)

by Alexilulu



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst and Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Spoilers for Mercedes & Sylvain Support Rank A, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Winky Face
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-10-28 14:00:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20779745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexilulu/pseuds/Alexilulu
Summary: Sylvain finds himself faced with one of his biggest regrets of all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am nothing if I am not attached to angst factories like Sylvain and Mercedes. They really just made him to pump out ridiculous maudlin shit like this and made Mercedes to be the sweetest thing on earth despite (because?) of the things she's gone through and I'm here to shovel it all into my fucking mouth like a god damn trash compactor.
> 
> Serious shoutouts to [Emmy's beautiful art of these two](https://twitter.com/chickenbabby/status/1175465472592101381) for being at least partial inspiration for me. I knew I had to write something with their ridiculous, beautiful dynamic before these existed but once they did I knew I had to do something sweet and sad at the same time or it just wouldn't be Right.

As the bandit’s blade pierces his side, Sylvain realizes he has altogether too many regrets to die right this second. However, his opponent seems to have other opinions on the matter, kicking him in the stomach to release the blade from his gut and throwing him stumbling onto his back.

“Ah, shit.” He tries to find his feet, which mostly just involves him kicking his legs and failing to get his arm under himself, the other occupied with trying and failing to hold his blood in. The dastard he’d been fighting circles him, flicking his noble blood from his blade with a flick of the wrist. Man, he never even learned how to do that, Felix always scoffed when he asked. Mercedes thought it was funny when he complained about it later at lunch.

Mercedes.

Shit. Okay, yeah, Sylvain has way too many regrets to die like this right now.

Chief among them is regretting that he ever came back to Garreg Mach. If he had been smart, he wouldn’t even be here right now. The heir of Margrave Gautier should be up in House territory running a revolution, not riding halfway across the remnants of Faerghus to honor a promise to a dead man. And yet, he sure as hell rode out of his own territory with nothing but a horse, a bag of supplies and a half-crazed group of retainers who rode at a full gallop after him for 3 hours just to catch him before he died.

He sent them home, of course. Nobody needs to see him while he’s like this, especially not men he’s supposed to lead someday. Let them think of him as the frivolous, callow Sylvain that he’s always been until his last breath. Which may be soon, based on the way the guy with the sword is moving towards him, shoulders set. Why, oh why did he have to split up with Felix (because _ of course _ Felix felt sentimental about their promise with the former crown prince too, not that he would _ ever _ admit it where anyone could see) once they got to the monastery town? He just wanted to wander the ruins a little, think about the good times. How was he supposed to know that he was walking into some kind of ridiculous super-thief bandit base? The man with the blade creeps closer, his face masked by black cloth. His eyes, though, are clear as day, and Sylvain knows a killing intent when he sees one. The sword at his belt is pinned under him, his spear is two feet away and cleaved in half besides, and this fucking bandit is going to gut him in about 5 seconds unless he does _ something. _

“Utter waste of space.” Sylvain’s hearing is getting kind of funny with the blood loss, the sound of the ocean rushing through his ears muffling whoever’s speaking. The bandit, probably, getting some choice mockery in before the killing blow. Like Sylvain’s ego doesn’t have enough to deal with lately. Sylvain no more than blinks when the bandit takes one last step forward, and finds instead of death taking him to his final reward a familiar face glaring down at him with blood fresh on his blade. “I can’t believe you made me waste my precious time saving your life, _ again.” _ Felix flicks the blood from his blade and sheathes it, his gaze down at Sylvain withering. “I ought to kill you where you stand.”

“H-hey, c’mon…” Sylvain gasps, groaning. Okay, still bleeding out, great. And Felix is mad at him (like that’s any different than usual).

“Get him up.” Felix nods to someone behind Sylvain, turning and walking away. “Annette, with me. I want to burn these rats out…” His voice fades, another figure jogging past him to catch up. Oh, hey, that’s nice, Annette came too. Who else is just wandering around a ruined, abandoned town filled up with bandits?

“Oh, dear, Sylvain, you are quite a sight.” A new, wonderfully familiar voice says in his ear, breathy as one would imagine the voice of the Goddess herself to be (or at least, like he imagines She does). Just a little hint of amusement, like She understands some cosmic joke about your existence that you can only begin to comprehend. A figure in white slides into view next to him, placing a hand over his on his abdomen. At once the pain fades, healing magic doing the work of weeks of bed rest in moments as his gaping sword wound slowly begins to close. “Whatever did you get up to all on your own, Sylvain? You’re a mess.” Mercedes smiles down at him, wiping something from his cheek (blood, probably) with a thumb.

“I, uh…” All coherent thought is long gone at this point. It’s like he's just that flirty, frivolous idiot he was when he knew her all over again. The first thing that comes to mind is to hit on her, of all things. Something about how she’s so divine it might actually be blasphemy? He’s a little woozy and it’s not quite coming together. It’s been five years, and that’s all he can come up with after all this time, apparently. His brother must be seething in his grave right now. He tries to muster what nits of his brain aren't occupied with mapping the lines of her face all over again with finding something to say.

He should be happy to see her, ecstatic even. It never really occurred to him that he could ever see Mercedes again after everything that happened. The pre-war times feel like a dream sometimes, like something he got to enjoy and that ended, never to return. And...well. With the fall of the monastery, he knew she didn’t have a whole lot to fall back on. Goddess, he feels callous even thinking about how he thought about it at the time, but he always just assumed that commoners tended to die young, even the lucky ones. Maybe especially the lucky ones. 

“Yeah, I am a mess, huh.” He settles for agreement, nodding and starting to sit sitting up. Bad idea, because his abdomen immediately reminds him rather painfully that its busy knitting together flesh and bone as well as just how much blood he lost. The entire cobblestone square under him looks like a lake of red. He hopes he isn’t bleeding all over Mercedes’ dress. 

“Don’t move yet.” She eases him back down, seeing plain the agony on his face and speaking in soothing tones almost perfectly designed to calm him. “You need to rest. Give the Goddess time to work.” Sothis help him, she really does look beautiful enough to be called divine in this moment, his failing brain be damned. Hair the color of freshly-reaped wheat hangs delicately framing her face, and he can feel himself falling all over again when he sees the way she smiles at him. The goddess really outdid herself with this one.

“Did you do something to your hair?” He says, trying to get his grin from ‘pained’ to ‘roguish’ and making it at least partway. “It’s, uh, it’s really great to see you, Mercedes. You’re literally a lifesaver, you know that?”

“Sure, sure.” She turns away, producing a cloth and mopping at his face. When it comes away more red than cream, he feels a stab of guilt. Figures he’s only good for ruining other people’s things. “You look no worse for wear since I last saw you.” Well, that’s certainly an understatement. The last time they saw each other was in the final chaos of the Empire's invasion of the monastery. Seeing his opportunity, Sylvain rode hard south through a gap in the Empire’s line, holding the gap and the monastery town’s gate long enough to send the fleeing students through to safety. The dragon that formed said gap deserves most of the credit, honestly. Sylvain last saw Mercedes from across the battlefield leading a group of nuns into a covered wagon. And then she was gone. A quiet exit despite the chaos of the battlefield. Each of them going back where they were meant to be, Sylvain's duty done.

“You, Mercedes, look like the divine image that womankind was crafted in the likeness of.” His grin does return to full strength then, and it’s just like old times. 

“Oh, stop. You’re going to start bleeding again if you break my concentration like that.” She laughs, her hand over his on his stomach tightening just slightly. “I’m glad the years haven’t changed you too much, Sylvain. I quite missed talking with you.”

“Yeah.” He nods. At least one of his many, many regrets ended up getting corrected today. “I couldn’t agree more.”

* * *

Moving back into Garreg Mach feels odd. 5 years away and sleeping in the same bed he...well. He spent a few hours down at the pond washing the sheets, to say the least.

Regardless, it was strange, coming back. Seeing Dimitri again, the Professor too. Everyone, really. Because literally everyone came back for the millennium festival, not just him. Will wonders never cease. 

But still, there’s one really weird thing. For one reason or another, Sylvain keeps finding himself in certain places whenever he isn’t occupied. Dropping by the cathedral for the much-more-limited evening mass. Sitting closer to the kitchen than he used to. Walking by the open-air dormitories, just because. And it feels like everywhere he looks, he finds himself watching Mercedes.

Okay, granted, the monastery is a ghost town compared to the school days. The people living here are basically just the old Blue Lions, some of the members of the Church who took refuge in Faerghus, and their support staff. But...it’s still weird, right? Five years go by with hardly a thought about Mercedes, save the occasional ‘wonder if she made it out alright’ cast out whenever he thought about the fall of the monastery. And now, here they are again and he can’t get her out of his head.

The worst part is how guilty it makes him feel. Before, they had...well. It wasn't anything, really. What's the word for a friendship defined entirely by being bafflingly emotionally open with one another? But Mercedes _ got _ him, fully and completely. She went through so much pain in her life because of her Crest, just like him. Hell, she went through _ worse, _ getting cast out the second her mother bore a Crested child for their adoptive family! She’s a dead-to-rights orphan, for crying out loud, raised by the church! She gets it. She sees through him in so many ways, was always unfailingly understanding and kind even when he snapped at her about his life, even played along with his ludicrous flirtations like they were nothing special. He fucking _ cried _ in front of her, and she promised to protect him! And he just...let her go. Watched her ride away to safety, safely out of his life. Because he knew that was what was expected of him. Duty to his family came first then.

Is this divine providence, then, or punishment? Can he reach out and try to grasp this, a second chance with the only person he ever felt he could really be himself with? Or will doing it reveal the truth of the world to him, one he always knew: happiness is for other people. Yours is a life of duty, Sylvain, and it’s best you remember that. The drumbeat of his life, beaten into him by his father. Beaten into him by Miklan.

Do your duty. Nothing less will ever be acceptable.

It was in the course of that duty that providence found Sylvain once more. Returning from a town-side patrol some weeks after the return to the Monastery, he got dragooned into acting as postman for a sack full of mail meant for the Monastery that had been lingering around the slowly rebuilding town all week. Not like it was a big sack, but still, there was plenty to it: After-action reports from field units, the odd bit of mail from the civilized parts of Faerghus that know to send something here, and...less reputable pieces of mail. Matters of the heart still hold sway over the people, and who can deny them the chance to write home? He rode hard back to the monastery, stripped out of his armor and whittled the small pile down over the course of the morning until he was left with only a single piece from the capital that had been marked urgent by its sender, a name he only recognized by association.

That was how Sylvain found himself standing outside Mercedes’ room that morning with what could only be a letter of proposal from an eligible suitor, sent on via her adoptive father.

Knock, knock. Do your duty, Sylvain. Nothing more. It’s not your problem if she’s marrying someone. It’s been 5 years, after all, how do you not know she isn’t already married, and this is her spouse sending her lovemail?

“Yes?” The door cracks open, Mercedes swinging it all the way open and blinking blearily up at him. She’s..._ Oh, Sothis, _ she’s barely dressed, sleep obvious from her hair and the coffee-colored shift that clings to every blessed curve of her. It’s everything Sylvain can do to actually act the gentleman and look away, clear his throat loud enough to wake Mercedes from her half-asleep state. “Oh, heavens! Sylvain, one moment!” The door slams shut in his face, and he can hear her raving quietly to herself on the other side of the door as she dresses herself to presentability. When it opens again, she’s dressed for an afternoon in the garden in a skirt and blouse, smiling nervously with a deeply red blush to complement the curves of her cheeks. “I’m ever so sorry for that, Sylvain. Please, come in. Would you like some tea?”  
“I...Sure, thanks.” He steps inside her room, looking around. It’s immaculate, carefully dusted and cared for. Kinda like he always imagined, really, though there's a bit of mess by the wardrobe where her shift has been cast to the floor in her haste to dress. He doesn't linger on it, though he knows that particular image isn't leaving him for awhile. Mercedes closes the door behind him and crosses to her desk, where a small kettle is already warming over a small candle. “Just waking up, then?”  
“Yes, I’m afraid I’ve become somewhat of a night owl since our school days.” Mercedes smiles, busying herself with setting two cups next to the kettle and selecting a sweet blend from a small drawer. “There’s ever so much to be done around here that I find myself staying up late into the night, occupied with work.”

“Yeah, the whole place is a mess. There’s a lot for everyone to take on.” Sylvain feels a twinge of regret again, wishing he could say he had done literally anything at all for the monastery since he got here except volunteer for watch and guard duties in town. Shit, maybe he'll be the one to start laundry duty back up. At least then he can say he's doing something worth doing that isn’t standing around and pretending that patrol duty actually matters.

“That’s quite true. Was there something that brought you by, Sylvain?” Mercedes turns back at him, glancing down at the envelope in his hand. Without thinking, he had hidden it against his side, pressed almost into nonexistence between his arm. Like he can just make it vanish so easily.

“Well, yeah. I brought up some mail from town, and...well.” He leans forward, placing it on the table next to the kettle as it begins to whistle. “Something came for you.”

“Oh!” she looks down at it and her voice falls, a frown crashing down over the smile she had worn so easily. “Something from father.” She stares down at the envelope, not meeting his eyes. “Tell me, Sylvain. If you’ll indulge me.”

“I’m an indulgent kind of guy.” It just bubbles up out of him like nothing, his smile as automatic and false as the half-joking tone he adopts.

“Do you remember our conversations in school?" There's a long pause, Mercedes opening her mouth to say something and thinking better of it before starting again. "I think about them often.”

“Yeah. I mean, me too. I…” Sylvain hesitates, mouth drying out by the second. Is this really happening? “Was there something about them that stuck out to you?”

“You were so angry about what I went through. With my family, with House Bartels and my mother.” She pauses, her gaze never wavering from the letter. The kettle whistles quietly between them, heedless of the moment. Mercedes sits down in the chair at her desk, a hand over the envelope. She doesn't pick it up. "My adoptive father...do you know what kind of man he is? Can you guess?” Her voice is quiet, bare of any emotion. 

“What did he do?” The old fury is already rising in him, of course, but he’s known how to keep that out of his voice since he was a child.

“The day after I returned from the monastery, he introduced me to a prospective husband. With the Kingdom collapsing on itself, he has sought any advantage he could find to make his name in the nobility. My Crest, of course, is my main selling point.” Only then, at admitting the crux of the issue, does any emotion enter her voice, and it is only the barest tinge of regret. “Five years of wheedling and cajoling me while I work to keep the capital church from collapsing in on itself because of the civil war. And the only thing he can think of is marrying me into a noble family, for his benefit.”

“I’ll kill him.” The words come without thought, every ounce of conviction in his body backing them. “That bastard doesn’t deserve you.”

“The man he wants me to marry, or my father?”

“Either.” Mercedes looks at him then, an expression mixed somewhere between grief and wonder on her face. Without thinking or stopping himself, he puts a hand on her own on the table, kneeling to bring himself down to below her. “I mean it. Mercedes, you are your own person. Anyone who looks at you and sees only a Crest they can get something from can go die choking on the blood they care so much about. Hell, I’ll help them do it.”

“Sylvain…” Mercedes hand doesn’t leave his, her other covering her mouth. She doesn’t sound shocked, or disgusted. She must have known what he would say, like she always has. But still, the saying it feels shocking even to himself. Admitting how ready he is to kill for her scares himself, just a little. But it feels right.

“I remember something I said when we were still in school. I haven’t stopped thinking about it, that promise we made each other, since you saved me from an ignoble death. I couldn’t live up to it when we were kids, but I think.” He stops, shaking his head in disgust. Disdain for the man he was, who couldn’t bring himself to _ want _ something bad enough to actually do something about it. “No, I know for sure that I meant it. I said I’d protect you. I’m more sorry than you could ever know that I failed to do it before now, but if you’ll have me, I’ll be your knight until the day I die.”

Mercedes cups his cheek, tears forming in her eyes. “You truly are so handsome when you’re honest, Sylvain.”

Kissing her feels almost sacrilegious after these last few days. He had thought about a great many things he wished he could express, that he could show her about himself, but for once in his life, the physical was furthest from his mind until she stood, pulled him to his feet to meet her and kissed him as gently as can be. Her hand falls to his shoulder and then takes a fistful shirt, pulling him insistently closer until they both raise their hand from the table in unison to pull each other closer, tugging harder and kissing more firmly with every passing second. Their pause for breath lasts only scant moments, their lips meeting again at an awkward angle and immediately adjusting into a comfortable rhythm with an ease that feels more familiar than it should.

“We should—” Sylvain says, only for Mercedes to silence him with another kiss, her hand pushing under his shirt and gripping his belt in her hand. The message is clear as crystal. Okay. One thing at a time. He can feel himself losing his already tenuous grip on the situation, but he’s perfectly willing to follow Mercedes anywhere she would lead him. When she begins to slowly turn them until she’s backed up against the desk, he follows, his hands resting on her thighs when she scoots herself on top of it, giving herself enough height to no longer need to lean upwards to meet him.

Knock knock knock. They both stop dead at the knocking on the door.

“Mercie? Are you awake? Your kettle is making a heck of a racket.” Annette calls through the door.

“S-sorry, Annie!” Mercedes calls back, her face so red that Sylvain almost thinks it may match his hair. “I must have dozed off, I’ll take care of it!” She reaches behind herself, lifting the kettle off the candle and setting it aside on the table.

“Do you think I could get a cup of that? I’m working on some siege engine calculations and my head is killing me.”

“Ah, uh, I uh, brewed it too long, Annie, I’m terribly sorry!” Sylvain stifles a hysterical giggle, which Mercedes glares at him for. “Maybe check in the dining hall, I bet Ashe has a good pot going.”

“Aww, but I love your tea. Okay, Mercie, you better get dressed and get going soon, there’s a lot to do today!” Annette finally, blessedly leaves, and Sylvain can only hold back giggles for so long before he has to turn away and break into laughter.

“Oh, you think that’s funny, do you?” Mercedes grouses, tugging him back to face her. Despite her tone, she’s smiling too, and still utterly beet red.

“It’s always funny, no matter the context. Getting caught in the act is hilarious.”

“Should we maybe...adjourn to your room, instead? Would it be safer?”

The image of the two occupants of the rooms adjacent to Sylvain’s comes bubbling to the forefront of his mind at that thought. “If Dimitri doesn’t behead us for it, Felix definitely would.” Sylvain sighs, smiling. “So, we’ll just have to be quiet.”

“Very well.” Mercedes returns it full force, reaching up and brushing a lock of his hair aside. She pauses, staring at him silently. “You meant what you said, Sylvain?”

“Every damned word.”

“Good.” She pulls him close, resting her head on his shoulder. “I missed you so much. I missed everyone, but I missed you most of all.” A pang of guilt spikes in his chest. She spent those 5 years imagining him as her savior, finally returning to make good on his promise, didn’t she? What does that make him, then, who only thought of her when it was convenient?

“I’m sorry. I...thought I had to, to be there for my family. I could have done something.”

“You did what was expected of you, Sylvain. I don’t blame you.” She doesn’t blame him. But it’s obvious how she feels about that. And that hurts more than his own guilt, his own regret.

“I’ll make it up to you. I’ll do anything.”

“I know you would.” Mercedes kisses his neck, his pulse pounding against her lips. “I just want you to be yourself, Sylvain. Not the man you think you need to be. I just want Sylvain.”

That’s great, but who is Sylvain anymore? Brother to a dead man whose death warrant he signed with the fact of his birth? The insincere flirt who wasted years of his life chasing the feeling of being free and resented the world around him for allowing him this luxury? The morose man who rode off alone to try to die in the graveyard of his greatest mistake rather than face what he would soon become? Is Sylvain the boy who cried in front of Mercedes, the first person to say they understood him and saw the pain and sorrow and fury buried under all of that?

Maybe all of those. Only one way to find out.

“I can do that.”

“That’s good.” She kisses him one last time, long and slow.

When they break, Sylvain lifts the letter from her father, still unopened. “Are you sure you don’t want to open it?”

“Heavens, no. I already said my goodbyes to my father when I left. Anything else he sends me is nothing but a waste of good paper.”

“Well said.” Sylvain slips it onto the resting place for the kettle, where the candle under it quickly sets it alight and burns it to naught but ash. Mercedes watches him the whole time it burns, unblinking. Slowly, she places a hand over his on her thighs, pulling it upward and slipping her skirt up with it. Underneath, she’s completely, pure as morning. 

“That was very sweet of you. As for what I want you to do next...I hope it’s obvious.”

“Very.” There’s always a moment when this part comes that Sylvain relishes with all his being. Watching the way Mercedes’ eyelids flutter when his finger enters her, the gentle parting of her lips with the first intake of breath afterwards. The sound she makes deep down in her chest, a soft release of air more akin to a sigh than a moan. If women are like tea, a fine blend of many things from across the world, all similar on some level but utterly unique in their own way, then this is the first taste upon his tongue, the bouquet to savor.

Mercedes is the best he’s ever tasted, bar none. He can’t take his eyes off her for a moment, unwilling to miss even the slightest reaction to his touch, the hesitant shudder when he presses to sensitive locations, her shivering gasps for breath as he quickens his pace. It’s almost too much, too rich for him to even begin to savor properly, as much as he wants to glut himself on this feeling. Blessedly, Mercedes makes move to escalate for him, untwisting his belt and pulling him closer to her by force, his cock ready and beyond willing by then.

“You’re mine.” Mercedes says between shaking breaths as he extricates his hand and puts himself in its place, her grip on him tightening to bone-crushing force. Even with as much experience as Sylvain has gotten for himself, this is something else. Mercedes rolls herself against him, the table rattling softly under her, and Sylvain moves with her, every moment more ecstatic than the last. Through it all Mercedes holds him tightly, her voice muffled only slightly against his shoulder, his own restrained only by willpower and practice.

“I’m yours. I promised.” Sylvain grunts, barely managing to even enunciate the words as anything but a formless growl of need. Beyond anything else, beyond the aching love and pain he feels for Mercedes, the only thing left in him is base drive, to make her happy, to be the thing she wants most now, that she begs for with every breath. He will be that forever, until she doesnt need it any more, and then he will become the thing she needs next. Another kind of duty, but one he has chosen, one he welcomes with all the love in his heart.

Finally, blissfully, Mercedes tenses and shifts, and Sylvain stops, well clear of any unneeded release. Maybe a little soon to worry about, sure, but a lifetime of worry leaves its marks.

“Sylvain.” Mercedes finally says, her lips brushing ticklishly against his neck. “Thank you. I...thank you.”

“Nothing to thank me for. I had as good a time as you did, believe me.” A moment’s fuss returns him to decency, though Mercedes still leans heavily on him from her perch on the desk.

“Sylvain, what did I tell you about honesty?” A hand slips between them, gripping his half-soft cock through his pants. “I think you could stand a little more of a good time.”

“Well, hang on. We don’t—” Goddess save him, that tone in her voice is going to have him as hard as a rock if she keeps it up.

“Really?” She’s got him dead to rights, even more so than she had back in the day. “Sylvain…”

“C-can’t we talk about this?” Sylvain backs up just a step. Mercedes is hot on his heels, tugging him back from his retreat towards the door and towards the bed, where she pulls him down on top of her in a laughing heap. “Okay, okay! I’ll stay.”

“Good boy.” Mercedes laughs, cupping his cheek as gently as she had the first time. “Now let me show you how appreciative I am.” Sylvain swallows, smiling more than a little nervously as her hand slips under his belt. Well, there’s a first time for everything.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvain tries, and fails, to have a normal morning breakfast. (Or succeeds, by some definitions)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't help myself, I wanted to get just a little bit more in. Leaning a little more comic than dramatic here but well. Felix and Ingrid are too much fun to write as angry at Sylvain for his outward-facing actions and choices.

"You've  _ got _ to be kidding me." Ingrid mutters under her breath as Sylvain sits down to breakfast after morning mass, his slice of syrup-laden toast halfway to his mouth.

"What? I can't get syrup in Sreng, I'm trying to enjoy myself for once." Sylvain fires back, taking a bite of the heavenly mixture with relish. He definitely needs the sugar, especially after the morning he’s had.

"What? No, not your disgusting gluttony, you pig." Ingrid points with her fork, a curd of egg still clinging to it. Sylvain instinctively covers the absurdly fresh and yet ridiculously prominent hickey on his neck with a hand. Thankfully, she can't see the rest of his chest, or she might be even angrier (if that's possible). "We're literally fighting a war for our survival, and you somehow still made time for philandery! Unbelievable."

"What exactly is she raving about now." Felix sits down at Sylvain's side, a bowl of porridge in his hand. Immediately, Sylvain can see the shift in his expression from casual disdain to active disgust once he understands the situation. This is far from the first verbal slapfight he and Ingrid have had over breakfast, and definitely won’t be the last. "You rutting pig, you honestly make me sick."

"Oh, come on, don't I get to defend myself here?" Sylvain sighs, lowering his hand and sighing. Felix slaps the hickey with the heel of his hand, sending a fresh jolt of pain through the sensitive area. "Hey!"

"Beast. All you think about is fucking, isn't it?"

"No! It's not like that, okay? It just happened! I wasn't even trying to score or anything, honest." No, he’d been prepared to be extra good for the morning, in fact, to make up for his various deficiencies as a person and heir to the Gautier household. 

Aaaaaaand then he had run into Mercedes on the way to the cathedral. Life comes at you fast (and louder than expected, too).

"And yet here you are, you filthy animal. I really, honestly thought that the years might have changed you, but nooooooo, you go right back to your old tricks." Ingrid shakes her head, scoffing and shoveling more eggs down, like she’s trying to finish her plate before Sylvain’s presence taints the food. "It's not even time for the midday bell."

"It wasn't there last night when we sparred before bed." Felix points out around a mouthful of porridge. Honestly, who is he to call him an animal with table manners like that? He's even got his elbows on the table, for Goddess' sake!

"Oh, fantastic! So you found someone to share a bed with. Am I going to have to send someone to launder some poor girl's underthings, Sylvain?"

"No! I didn't even stay the night with anyone, I slept in my room! Ask Felix!" Sylvain points to his alibi, though he knows it's only going to make Felix angrier.

"He was.” Ah, there's the 'I'm going to gut you like a farm animal' glare Felix reserves only for him in the mornings. It's just like old times! “I could hear him through the wall all damned night. Nobody but him could sleep in that room with the sounds he makes in his sleep."

"...Sylvain. Where were you this morning?" Ingrid's voice is icily calm, which only means bad things for him. She's figuring it out, putting two and two together and getting Sylvain’s particular crime for the day.

"I went straight to morning mass."

"But you… No. Sylvain." Ingrid tilts her head, eyes pleading with him to deny the truth. " _ Please _ tell me you didn't."

Sylvain takes a bite of his toast, more to draw this out even a few seconds longer before his friends collectively murder him. "I don't know what you want me to say, Ingrid."

" **Please** tell me you—" Ingrid pauses, throwing a glance over her shoulder before continuing in a low hiss, "you didn't have  _ sex _ during  _ morning mass!" _

He shrugs.

"He really does have no brain at all in that impossibly thick skull of his, doesn't he?" Felix remarks, shaking his head.

"Who." Ingrid sets down her fork and folds her hands in front of her on the table, still icy calm and collected. Bad sign. If he finishes his toast and runs now, maybe he can make it to the stable before her and hide out somewhere in town.You know, before she gets to a pegasus and literally drags him down the mountain screaming bloody murder.

"A gentleman never tells!" Sylvain devours the other half of his toast in two bites and starts to stand, only for Felix to stomp down on his foot and grab him by the shoulder, holding him down in his chair. "Hey, ow! Come on, why do you even care? You two never got like this when we were in school!"

"Oh yes I did! Did you forget how many crying girls I had to pick up the pieces for?" Ingrid is in rare form, eyes blazing as she stares him down. "Except back then I didn't have to worry about whatever baby recruit you bedded breaking and the line folding around her when we're in battle because you couldn't be bothered to be seen with her again!" Ingrid snaps, leaning over the table and grabbing a fistful of his shirt, staring him down without a shred of pity. "So. Who. Did. You. Fuck."

"Hi, everyone!” Ingrid releases Sylvain immediately, sitting back in her seat as Annette calls over to them in a polite sing-song, holding a tray laden with tea and baked goods. “Mercie and I made some stuff, but it’s too much stuff, so we wanted to share!” Sure enough, Mercedes is standing right behind her, looking just as radiant as she did about an hour ago. Probably she had enough time with a brush to take care of the rather severe case of sex hair she’d developed over the morning. Luckily, Sylvain’s dashing mop looks much the same regardless of sexual escapade duration. He considers it a perk more than anything else.

“That sounds great!” Ingrid nods and smiles her particular insincere smile that always happens when she’s mad at Sylvain for the shit he does but also knows it isn’t socially acceptable to beat a man to a pulp outside a dueling ground. The look he gets from her while the girls set out the tea set and pour cups for everyone tells him everything he needs to know about how over their discussion is. At least Felix releases his vise grip on his shoulder, taking one of Annette’s cups with an actual ‘thank you’ that sounded like he meant it. What the fuck is going on there?

“It’s kinda like old times, isn’t it?” Annette says once she sits down next to Ingrid. Mercedes has, of course, moved to sit opposite them, which coincidentally puts her next to Sylvain. He glances over to her, grinning tensely and getting her brightest smile in return. Does she even know how much trouble he’s in right now?

“As much as some things change, others will always stay the same.” Mercedes says with that same beatific smile, meeting Sylvain’s eyes oh-so-deliberately. “Thank you for your help this morning in the sepulchre, Sylvain. It really was appreciated.”

Oh, Goddess, of course she’s too honest to even try to lie about where she was, and that little quirk at the edge of her smile as she takes a sip of tea is just for him, answering his question regarding her intent. The look he can see Ingrid giving him out of the corner of his eye is legendary, though. Shock, rage, confusion, all wrapped up in one look that could probably burn through steel plate.

“It wasn’t really a big deal. I was just glad to help.”  _ Help _ is an interesting word for what they did down in that tomb, but...well, getting someone off with your mouth alone after making out for who knows how long is technically in the wheelhouse of ‘helping’, he guesses.

“Is that where you went off to, Mercie? I thought it was strange that you missed morning mass.” Annette leans forward intently, a crumb of her cake falling from her cheek. Mercedes actually laughs, which seems so ridiculous given the rictus grin fixed on Ingrid’s face and the surly, almost disbelieving silence from Felix. Sylvain can practically see the murderous intent pouring off Ingrid towards him, and decides that regardless of what happens, he should probably be _very_ nice to her for the next...oh, year, probably. Maybe then she’ll return to her normal status of being disgusted by his life and choices.

“So many of the old tombs are ransacked and in such terrible repair, I’ve been working with some of the members of the church to return them to their former state.” Another calm sip of tea, like she didn’t just basically say they were fucking in a desecrated tomb that morning to everyone sitting at the table. Except Annette, who seems to be taking the story at face value and hasn’t paid any attention at all to Sylvain’s gigantic hickey, bless her heart. “Sylvain was such a gentleman, offering to do all the heavy lifting at such an early hour. Though, I must admit, Sylvain.” Oh god. She looks right at him, smiling in a way that can only strike fear in his heart. “I thought you would have worked up quite an appetite, but you’ve hardly touched any of the tea or biscuits.”

You could hear a pin drop in the dining hall right then. Ingrid is staring daggers (or spears, given the look on her face right now) at him right now. Felix sets his cup down, just hard enough to remind him of who exactly is sitting next to him. If Ingrid doesn’t hop the table to murder him for whatever he says next, Felix will tear him to shreds (metaphorically  _ and _ literally) in a second flat.

Goddess, please forgive a humble sinner once more.

“Oh, well, I made sure to bring a snack with me to keep me going.” He gives Mercedes his best lopsided grin, praying that the next thing he feels isn’t the cold hand of Death coming to take him.

“I’ve just about had enough of this.” Felix stands, pushing his chair away with a deafening scraping of wood on stone. “Come find me when you’re finally ready to die for your crimes, idiot.”

Annette giggles as Felix storms away from the table. “He’s so funny, isn’t he? Always so serious. Probably off to go beat some discipline into one of the new recruits.”

“He’s not the only one around here who could use some discipline beaten into him.” Ingrid says coolly, staring Sylvain down for one last moment. “Thank you for the tea, Annette.” She stands, pausing to look at Mercedes, like she’s trying to put together a puzzle that doesn’t fit. “Mercedes.”

“Always wonderful to see you, Ingrid.” Ingrid frowns, surprised by the honesty in Mercedes voice or just perturbed by everything that just happened. She waves at Ingrid’s retreating back, seemingly without a trace of irony.

“You’ve got some real weird friends, Sylvain.” Annette says, wiping her mouth with a cloth. “They hardly ate anything for breakfast and off they go running to beat up trainees! They’re gonna be ravenous by the time the lunch bell rings.”

“I think that they won’t be the only ones. Sylvain,” Mercedes says in a beautiful sing-song, “I was hoping I could convince you to help me with some more  _ heavy lifting _ before lunch.”

Oh, Goddess. If this keeps up, he’s gonna be dead of dehydration by the end of the day. If Felix or Ingrid don’t find him first and kill him with whatever’s laying around, of course.

But how could he ever say no to that beautiful face?

“I’d be honored, Mercedes. Lead the way.” He stands, plucking a tea cake from the pile and devours it in a single bite. He’s gonna need all the energy he can get if this round of ‘heavy lifting’ is going to be anything like the last.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm basically just using this fic to have a bunch of interconnected little moments I want to have with these two at this point? This one is NSFW unlike the last, but not all of them will be NSFW. Consider yourself warned.

“Wherever do you think you’re off to?” Mercedes asks, sitting up in bed. Across the room, Sylvain pauses, his pants hanging halfway up his firmly toned legs.

“Back to my room?” Sylvain replies, eyebrow quirked. He finishes pulling on his pants and begins casting about the floor for his shirt, moving aside her scattered underthings in his search. They had been quick to seize the opportunity to slink off after dinner, the prospect of a day off tomorrow after so many hard days of work and worry about the war accepted with relish. And yet here they are, scarcely beginning to enjoy a night together, and Sylvain is ready to leave. It’s not the first time he’s attempted to bolt after an assignation in her room, but Mercedes would be very happy indeed if it were the last.

It could be so easy. To simply stand, take him by the hand and pull him back into bed. It could be so easy to force the issue, to take hold of him and say that she won’t let him leave. But what would the point be? Sylvain is not a wild stallion, she can’t simply break him with discipline and control into a role she decided for him. That isn’t the man she feels so ardently for, who looked to her for protection and swore himself in kind. She can only hold open the door and speak the words, to tell him what she wishes from him and see if he will understand why. Sylvain’s worst enemy, the thing she desires to protect him from, has never been an external threat.

If only he would see that.

“Sylvain.” He looks up at her again when she speaks, his shirt in hand. “I don’t like that you feel you have to leave.”

“You really don’t want to hear me snore all night.” He smiles insincerely, brown eyes unmoved by the gesture.

“If it becomes that much of a problem, I’ll simply muffle it with your pillow until the issue is resolved.” She watches Sylvain stand, pulling on his shirt. “Please stay.”

“Well, that’s pretty ominous.” He laughs but doesn’t take his eyes from her, trying to gauge just how serious she is. Finally, he sighs and sits down on the edge of the bed facing her. She holds out a hand to him and he takes it, crawling into bed and settling down next to her. The blanket had already fallen aside when she sat up, and Mercedes makes no effort to cover herself despite the evening chill. She pulls him close, kissing him gently on the cheek.

“Thank you for being brave anyway.” She whispers in his ear, delighting at the small shiver down his back. “My loyal knight.” Her lips brush his as she speaks, her tongue flickering out for just a moment to tease him closer. That gets him, Sylvain sliding himself against her and kissing her back hard, his hand creeping to the small of her back. In turn, she takes a handful of his hair in her own hand, keeping him close so she can return the favor when he tries to back off. Always retreating, never ready to commit fully, not yet.

“Mm. You know, I’m definitely not going to be good for another round anytime soon.” Sylvain says, his hand drifting lower to grasp her hip despite his rather tepid protest. Perhaps they’ll revisit the issue later. They have all night, after all.

“I didn’t ask you to stay because I wanted more, Sylvain.” She releases his head and pinches the back of his hand gently, smiling. “I wanted to spend time with you, just you and I.”

“Oh.” That, of all things, gets a little color to rise to his cheeks. “Well, uhh, that’s...okay.” He has absolutely no idea what to make of that idea, that much is obvious. Poor boy.

“Yes, it’s very okay.” She pulls him closer until she’s nestled herself against him, her forehead against his chest. “Have you really never stayed for long after bedding a girl?”

“Not really.” Regret stains every syllable. “They, uh, a lot of them didn’t really want it. I think they knew as well as I did what they were here for. The few that did. Well.” He falls silent, his hand drifting up from her hip to trace mindless circles on her back with a finger. “...Yeah.”

“It’s in the past.” Mercedes slips a hand under his shirt, tracing the shape of abdominal muscles slowly upwards. “Do you like this?”

“Mmm...it’s good. You have very soft hands. And you’re warm.” Sylvain’s voice drops lower. “Should we still be talking this late at night? Annette might hear.”

“You let me worry about Annie.” That girl might be too focused on her work for her own good. It’s been nearly two weeks since that disastrous breakfast, but she still hasn’t put the pieces together about them, despite just about everyone involved including Dimitri and the Professor having figured it out or been told about their budding relationship. “At this hour, she will have found a thoroughly interesting book about something like the optimal way to manage mana flow during spellcasting and is all but dead to the world.” She smiles up at him, poking him in the chest. “I don’t recall you being particularly picky about noise only a few minutes ago.”

“C’mon, I was in the moment!” Sylvain protests, laughing when she keeps prodding him. “What?”

“Take off your shirt. And your pants as well, actually. No point being dressed if you’re staying.” A part of her chides herself for such a selfish request, but more and more she’s grown to discount such thoughts. Her own definition of selfishness has been skewed for years now, and small things such as this are perfectly fine. She can be selfish with the man she loves from time to time. Seiros knows he’d do it to himself just as quickly.

“It’s pretty cold tonight.” Sylvain points out even as he slips away just enough to pull his shirt over his head. She keeps her hand splayed firmly across his chest, luxuriating in the warmth of his skin.

“I have a very warm blanket, and you have a bedmate. I promise to protect you from the cold.” Mercedes says in a tone she’s heard a hundred noblemen take when declaring such things.

“Very chivalrous of you. Are you sure you aren’t secretly thinking of becoming a knight?” Sylvain slips out of his pants and casts them over his shoulder along with his shirt. Oh, Goddess, he’s quite something to behold, even in this dim light. She does feel a little twinge of guilt, keeping him all to herself, but it passes quickly. No other girl in the world gets him the same way, and she won’t let such thoughts cloud her judgement.

“I’m quite happy where I am, thank you.” She tugs him closer by one arm until he slides close enough for her to throw the blanket over them both. “Quite happy indeed.”

“Me too.” Sylvain turns over on his side, letting Mercedes place herself directly against him, her head resting on his shoulder. “You’re warmer than I thought you’d be.”

“I could say the same of you, actually.” Mercedes closes her eyes, humming appreciatively. “It’s not uncomfortable.”

“Definitely not.” Sylvain agrees, his arm draped across her side. They remain like this for quite awhile, Mercedes focused on the sound of Sylvain’s breathing. Of course, once his hand migrates down to her hip, she has other things on her mind once more. Her own hand slips down Sylvain’s body, finding more evidence in the half-hard cock laying against his thigh. It twitches several times under her fingertips as it continues to awaken, which would be slightly off-putting if not for the soft breath of surprise from Sylvain.

“Hello.” Sylvain says with a laugh.

“I was wondering if this might happen.” She opens her eyes and smiles up at him. “Do you want to?”

“Yeah.” The immediate response is gratifying, if nothing else. “Would you be okay if we didn’t...?”

“Of course.” They’ve not repeated their first time together once yet, let alone has he even let himself finish in her mouth. It’s a little annoying, mind you, but a lifetime’s worth of hangups around such things won’t disappear anytime soon. She brushes her fingers up his length cautiously, testing the waters and finding them fine indeed, based on Sylvain’s muttered curse. “Everything all right?”

“Just sensitive still.” The tension in his voice is delicious. She keeps up the motion, drifting lower and cupping him with a hand. With a finger, she massages just below the root of his balls, pressing firmly against the soft flesh. “Why does that feel so good?” Sylvain murmurs appreciatively, his grip tightening on her hip.

“Just something I learned,” Mercedes says with a shrug. She’s loath to move away from him or break his grip on her hip, but the angle is awkward at best. She gives it a little longer before letting up, kissing his chest softly. “I have an idea. Care to follow my lead?”

“Mercedes, I would follow you anywhere.” With how unthinkingly sweet that was, she can’t help but give him a proper kiss as reply. “What are you thinking?”

“That I’m going to need a little bit more foreplay.” Sliding herself up a little further, she pushes her chest forward for emphasis. “Don’t forget your hand, either.”

Sylvain laughs but accepts the offer with relish, leaving meandering kisses across one breast while his hand cups her crotch, a finger pressed to her entrance. Anticipation alone gets Mercedes to release a joyous exhalation that Sylvain takes as encouragement, his mouth closing over a nipple and sucking hard. Slipping her own hand down over his own, she guides his fingers as they spread her open, caressing gently over lips still sensitive from their last round. Between that, her own cresting need and Sylvain’s mouth questing across her chest, the desired effect is quick to come; once Sylvain’s hand and hers are slick with her arousal, she pulls their hands back and drags them down her thighs, spreading the wetness everywhere she can. 

“...Oh, huh.” Sylvain says after releasing her other nipple rather reluctantly. “Never tried that.”

“Neither have I.” Mercedes says, turning over so her back is facing him and looking back at him. “But I’ve heard very good things from some friends at church.” Outreach in a big enough city can mean you meet some very interesting people both high and low on the social ladder.

“Well, that’s...huh.” Sylvain slides in behind her, his skin so deliciously warm against her back. “Do I just...right up against it?” She can feel him against her thighs, pulled just far enough away that only the tip touches. She nods, and as gently as he can he slips himself between her legs, her lips rubbing down his entire length. While it feels fantastic for her, Sylvain curses and shudders against her.

“Is everything alright?”

“Haah...yeah, totally.” He smiles through gritted teeth. “Just...wow. Need a second.” His next stroke is slower, more hesitant, and even more delicious than the first, every bit of him dragged back against her and pushed past again. Sylvain’s groan of pleasure mixes with her own, twinned need twined together in this moment. Mercedes knows exactly how overstimulated Sylvain is, and how close to the edge she is herself, and prays only that they get to enjoy this just a little bit longer. Sylvain obliges her with gusto, maintaining that same aching pace that maximizes the time they both spend in contact with the other.

Neither of them really stood much of a chance for lasting long, but the finish is explosive nonetheless. Sylvain goes first, locking rigidly against her back and shoving himself as hard against her as he can, long jets of his seed spilling past the edge of the bed onto the stone. Mercedes finishes herself only moments later, with a little help from her hand over her much-abused clit. Sylvain scoots out from behind her somewhere in the middle of her orgasm, dragging his cock against her one last time for an extra pulse of sensation mingling with the others.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Mercedes says, surprised by the drowsiness in her own voice. She’s never really felt tired after an orgasm, but so many in a row is taking it out of her.

“Just cleaning up.” Sylvain squats in their pile of clothes, frowning. “You don’t have a towel in here, do you?”

“No, I leave them in the Sauna.” Mercedes yawns, groaning. “You’ve taken it right out of me, Sylvain. Come back to bed.”

“We made a huge mess, I’d feel bad if I just left it.” He sighs, standing with his shirt in hand and wiping off their mixed fluids from between Mercedes’ legs. Always a gentleman, even when he’s being ridiculous. “There.” He throws the thoroughly befouled shirt back to the floor like it’s nothing more than a dirty rag, which it has essentially become.

“Now will you come to bed?” Mercedes holds out her hands towards him until he rolls his eyes and climbs back into her arms, letting her rest her head against his chest once more.. “Much better.”

“I think I get the allure of all this cuddling much better now.” Sylvain wraps an arm around her, pulling the blanket back into place over them.

“It’s very comfortable.” Mercedes yawns again. “Oh, my.”

“Very comfortable, huh.” Sylvain yawns in reply, smacking his lips. “Maybe we should use your bed for its intended purpose at long last. Gonna need to get up bright and early to wash all my clothes before Felix or Ingrid find me wandering around the monastery nude from the waist up.”

Of course, by the time he says that, Mercedes is already fast asleep, her breath soft on his skin.


End file.
